The child sobbed softly in her arms as she tried to reassure him everything would be alright. The shattered glass crunched loudly under her feet as she and the boy moved slowly through the otherwise silent building. Noticing a door at the end of the corridor that was slightly open she made her way toward it.

Pushing it gently with her shoulder the door opened to reveal an empty classroom. Bright, colourful drawings of dinosaurs, jet planes and other fragments of children’s imaginations adorned the walls of the room. The seats and desks were scattered and disorganised, books and pens still on those that remained upright. Large chalked numbers revealed the days unfinished math lesson on the board behind the teacher’s desk which was cluttered with text books and notes.

The boy began to weep uncontrollably as she tried to put him onto one of the seats. “It’s okay, it’s okay”, she repeated as he lay his head in his hands on the desk, tears now streaming down his dirty face. Going to the nearest window she peered out into the grey, rain soaked morning. The schoolyard below seemed abandoned as the driving rainfall danced and glistened on the solitary swing set in its centre. She glanced briefly back toward the boy who remained in the same seated position only now had his sobbing desisted slightly to a quiet moan as he drew circles on the desk with a newly acquired marker.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted three men with guns at their side slowly enter the schoolyard below. Using their hands to signal the men fanned out, each moving in different directions. Panic now engulfed her as she grabbed the boy and left the classroom, retracing her steps back along the dimly lit corridor.

Passing the shattered glass she thought she could hear voices behind her so quickened her pace. Turning left past more classrooms the body of a woman lay protectively over a dead child in a pool of blood by the doorway of one. Further ahead lay two more children their faces etched in pain from the gunshots that ended their short life. “Don’t look”, she whispered to the boy she carried, “it will be over soon.”

Reaching a stairwell she moved hastily down the first flight the boy rocking in her arms with each step. Pausing on the landing she listened for any more voices and when she heard nothing descended the next set of steps.
On the ground floor she noticed the neon green exit sign that illuminated the top of the door at the end of the corridor. She glanced over her shoulder before setting off in the direction of the exit. Another woman lay lifeless in a foetal position by the water cooler her white blouse stained heavily red from a gunshot wound to neck, as she and the boy passed.

She gripped the metal bar on the door and pulled down but nothing happened, the exit was locked. She tried it again but nothing happened. “shit, shit, shit”, she muttered under her breath as she looked for an alternative way out. The men she had seen from the window were entering the school from the front so that was not an option. She moved toward the back of the building, the weight of the boy now beginning to drain the strength in her arms.

The door of the school canteen lay open in front of her. The smell of freshly cooked food lingered in the air. Moving through the rows of tables and chairs she tried to open a window on the far side of the canteen. The window opened slightly as a rush of cold wet air rushed in before the jamming on its lock. She tried another window but it was the same and then a third. Realising all the windows were similar she carried the child through the hall and into the kitchen behind.

Pots of steaming food sat on top of the cookers in the kitchen with utensils strewn on the surfaces beside them. Shards of smashed plates littered the ground some still decorated with the meals they once carried. She was tiring fast as she searched for a way out. Next to the large silver industrial refrigerator behind the ovens she spotted another exit. Once again she pressed down the metal bar that ran across it and this time with a slight groan the door swung open.

The rain soaked her and the boy as she ran across the almost empty car park behind the kitchen. Trying to remember where she had left her car that morning she stood momentarily to get her bearings. “Ma’am, stop right there”, a booming voice commanded behind her.

Turning slowly she faced the police officer who had his weapon pointed at her. He edged toward her not leaving the gun off her. “I’m a teacher and I am trying to get this boy out of here”, she said with fear tinged in her voice as she held the child close. ”Okay ma’am, just put the boy down and we can get you both to safety”, the officer replied gradually putting his weapon back in its holster. She placed the boy on the wet concrete his hands still wiping tears from his face.

As the policeman moved toward them she swiftly removed the Glock 19 from the band of her jeans and fired off two quick rounds both hitting the man one in the stomach and the other in his eye. His body folded underneath him as his face cracked off the wet surface. The boy screamed as the loud bang of the gun exploded in his ears. Grabbing him up in her arms again Anna ran in search of her vehicle.

__________________Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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“What if I just shot him in the head?” Chase asks as we sit on the football field bleachers. “That would end the problem.”

I hate it when we get to this point of the conversation. I tell him the same thing every time. “Then it would just cause a shitload of other problems,” I say. I can’t understand why Chase can’t get it through his thick skull killing his father would solve everything.

“What if it’s self defense?” he says, standing up and walking the bleacher plank like it was a tightrope. “Then I have a reason. I’d be protecting myself.”

“Yeah, but it all depends on how it went down.” We’ve gone over so many scenarios, but he’s been hung up on the gun thing for the past few days now. He needs to get his head out of his ass and get over this quick. I keep telling him summer will start soon, we’ll be out of high school for good this time.

“Chase, man, you need a girlfriend, or better yet a job. Then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ bout this shit.”

“Dude, how many times do I gotta tell ya? This is the only way I can cope.” He starts walking off the last row of bleachers and waves me down. “Come on, let’s get out of here, I’m starving my ass off over here.”

We walk around the school and down the busy street to the White Castle’s. I take it that’s what we’re having since we’re headed right in that direction and it’s the first restaurant from here.

“You just wanna stop for some sliders or you want somethin’ else?” Chase asks me. There’s a Burger King further down and further down that is the Oak Lawn Restaurant, which I’d rather go to, but I don’t even remember the last time Chase popped for the food, so I just agree on the greasy sliders.

Once we walk in, the fumes from the thin salty burgers sizzling on the steal oven-tops hits us like an invisible cloud of cooking oil. I really don’t want to eat this crap. It always gives me the shits afterwards. But it’s the cheapest thing around here and since I’ll be paying for the umpteenth time, I keep my mouth shut.

“Just don’t order a lot,” I tell Chase. “I only got six bucks.”

“Fine. I’ll get the next one,” he says. What he always says yet it never happens. If it wasn’t for his prick father stealing his money all the time, I’d have a better savings account balance. If I can just keep a good fifteen hundred to two grand before I go to ISU, I’d be good.

We order six dollars worth of food, six sliders, two small Cokes and a small thing of fries and sit down in the corner booth by the windows.

“So when you gonna talk to her?” Chase says out of the blue as he stuffs a burger in his mouth. “Ain’t got much time left. Graduation’s less than a week away.” He manages to say between bites. I’m not sure why he cares I talk to Heather. Then again it’s all I’ve been talking about this past year. I take it he’s sick of me mentioning all the time.

“I’m not sure,” I tell him, swigging down some Coke. “I need to find the right time.”

“I don’t see why you waited so long. Shit it’s not like she’s this huge superstar actress or something.” Chase gobbles down another two more burgers and crams a fistful of fries in his mouth. “OOOaahhh.” He lets out a huge smelly burp.

“Geez, you gotta do it right in my face?” I wave it off.

“So, what’s stopping you?”

“One word. Aaron. Beside, why does it matter to you anyway?” I take one last bite and ram the remainder of it back in the burger box. “I’m gonna do it.”

“No yer, not. You’re gonna chicken out like always and then you’ll be shit outta luck. You’re just using Aaron as an excuse.” Chase finishes off the last bit of fries and wipes his greasy face with the napkin. “God, I swear, if I have to hear this shit all summer I’ll take my father’s gun and shoot myself.”

Again with the gun. It’s weird. Why is he bringing it up so much lately? He better not be thinking what I think he’s thinking. Jesus, that’s all he needs is to steal his father’s gun and get beat to death. Or worse. I don’t even want to think of all the horrible scenarios that could happen.

“Why can’t you ever focus on the positive? It’s always gotta be this negative shit with you.”

I crumple up the last bit of trash, slide out of the booth, emptying off the tray and stack it on the garbage.

“What are you talking about? I am the most positive person you’ll ever meet.”

Oh, God. Here we go again.

“What about that time when we were with Derek and Hunter? Shit, Derek drove us so out of the way. God, you guys panicked like a bunch of pussies how lost we were. Terrified little girls, but I kept it cool.”

We start walking out the doors as Chase keeps rambling about all the times he was positive. Like passing some kind of test. “And that time when we were heading home that one year. In third grade member? God you knocked your tooth out right on the tracks dude, it was hilarious how you fell.” Chase starts laughing. We wait for the light to change then cross back over to the school.

“But I stayed positive while you freaked out.”

“Jesus, Chase, that’s cause my whole mouth was bleeding. I hada go back and forth to the dentist for three weeks because of it.”

“I know. I know. I’m just sayin’. I was positive then as I am positive now, so don’t give me that shit.”

We head in back of the school again and cut through the football field. Today’s been the nicest day, weather wise. It’s bright and warm, about sixty-five degrees with a light wind brushing against our faces. The sky is a perfect blue without a cloud in sight. And everything’s in full bloom.

Only a few days left of school and summer begins. I desperately want to talk to Heather before all that happens. I just wonder if I’ll ever get the chance.

We walk down a few blocks and in through the neighborhood. Chase walks along me with his tall gangly body holding up a decent stride. He turns to me and smiles with his perfect set of teeth. The only thing that’s perfect on him after wearing braces for three out of the four years of high school. I will admit, he’s always in good spirits and yes, he has a positive attitude most of the time. I don’t know how he does it with a dad like this. If he could just stop hitting him. If you think about it, it’s amazing Chase has the attitude he has, knowing what he’s been through in life.

We silently walk together down to his block. I just wonder how he’s going to take it when I tell him I’m going to Illinois State in the fall. I want him to be okay without me, yet deep down inside me guilt about leaving him gnaws in the back of my mind. I mean, what if Chase did do something with that gun?

We get up to Chase’s house. The weeds are all overgrown and the cement porch is all cracked up. It reminds me again of how shitty Chase has it.

“So you’ll call me later then?” he says, walking backwards up the driveway.

It bothers me he needs me so much, always clinging onto our friendship. It isn’t the same with Derek and Hunter. They didn’t come into the picture till middle school. Not like me and Chase. We’ve been friends since we started to walk. I look at him and hesitate for a second or two thinking all this.

“So you gonna call me or what, man?”

“Yeah, yeah. I will. Later.”

We part ways from there as I head down the block.

Images of Chase shooting his father in the head invade my thoughts. I picture Chase lining up the gun right between his father’s eyes as the bullet rips open his face. Graphic, I know. But I’ve been brainwashed with all these ideas now that it’s really becoming bothersome. All I want to do is make it through graduation and figure out the summer from there. I promise myself not to worry so much about this Chase and the gun talk. All it is is talk. I don’t think Chase would actually do something. At least, I hope not.

__________________Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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Note to the reader-If you do not like very, very dark humor,please stop reading this right now.This story is especially not suggested for:-Mothers-Grilling fans-Department store managers-Anyone named ClownAny comments would be appreciated.Thanks.-the Rabbit.

THERE'S SOMETHING TERRIBLY WRONG WITH CLOWN

My parents, for no reason whatsoever, honored my two-day old baby self with the name Clown. They aren’t big fans of clowns. You won’t find a clown costume in their closet. No one in our family has ever served time in the face-painted corps. They don’t even like the film or book IT. Nope. None of the above. They just thought it would be…well…funny. It would be funny to have a son named Clown. I guess you could say from that day forth I had been set on the path I am currently walking. My name is Clown Barker and I am a raging psychopath.

I work for a department store. It’s decent work. Most days. Some days, not so much. I mean, I’m not insane. I’ve concluded that. It’s my job that is insane. Repetitive motion, you know? Big wall of boxes stuffed (and I do mean stuffed) into a trailer meant to transport about six-hundred cases less than it leaves the distribution center with. Pick up box. Put box on line. Push box. Repeat steps b through d over and over and over again.

Maybe my job made me crazy. Who knows? Maybe the government’s right and its those gal-darn video games. Yes, because Pac Man really had a strong effect on me to act out its plot. I go to dim-lit rooms, swallow pills repeatedly, and get chased by the ghosts of the men I haven’t yet killed, all the while jamming out to techno-trash-pop. What’s that? That’s not what that game is about? Well, fuck me, could’ve fooled me. Note to self- play more Pac-Man.

“You, Clown, are a dude.”

My fellow pick up-put-push partner is Paul. And he is currently trying to explain to me why I am great…or in his hipster words… “a dude”.

“Why do you say that, Paul? All I did was point out that the bad guy from The Count of Monte Cristo is also now the guy tormenting Tony Stark and how that’s one horrible choice of actor.”

“It was a valid point, bra.”

My name is not bra, you little piece of hipster scum. “Thanks a lot, Paul.” Note to self- murder Paul. Make it look like terrible Instragram accident. Hipsters and the whole iGeneration can go to hell.

I know what you’re thinking: you’re such a hypocrite, Clown. And you’re not wrong. I am very much so a hypocrite. It comes with being a self-admitted psychopath. Scratch that- raging psychopath. I’m literally on Tamerlan watch, teetering on one snide remark from an outburst of Boston Marathon proportions.

Some living-breathing-walking douche in a muscle tee and sunglasses walks into the trailer and checks his phone for about thirty seconds. The trailer is the ultimate secret texting spot, it seems. This human-sized vaginal disinfectant is named Floyd. I hate Floyd.

“You girls not done yet?” he asks, picking up a tiny box from the ground and putting it on the line. “My mother throws faster than y’all.”

Paul smirks at me. I smirk back. I don’t want him to know that the thought of throwing a box at both of them and then using my box cutter to decapitate them just crossed my mind.

I’m like Jekyll and Hyde without all the actual murders and rape and all that. I’ve actually never committed a violent crime in my life. I don’t want to drag attention to myself. It only makes people worry for you. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I'm the salt of the earth. Ask my conscience and he’ll tell you to run for your life. There’s something terrible brewing inside of me and I really don’t know if I can contain myself.

After the hour long battle of man versus box has been fought, I exit the trailer and walk toward the water fountain. On the way to re-hydrate, Kimberly stops me. Kimberly has big tits. There, I said it. I never understood why I felt the need to not imagine these things while talking to women. It’s not like they can read my mind. I don’t care what the movies and songs of the 70s have tried to teach us.

“Well, Leo wants me to work with Katie in the chemical aisle and I was just wondering if you could work my paper section for me.” She stands on her tippy-toes like a six-year-old trying to get two scoops instead of just one.

“Sure. I’ll let Leo know.” Ohhhh yeah. Pearl necklace. End scene.

“Thanks, Clown. You’re the best.”

Most people don’t realize that most fires are actually accidents. They have this imagery built into their heads that some evil man comes and just starts fires. No, not really. Almost nine times out of ten, it’s just some faulty wiring or a leaky gas pipe. Arson’s a true amateurs versus professionals game. Any asshole can light a fire. Real arsonists can burn that bitch to the ground.

That being said, do you know how much paper is on your average paper aisle at your local department store? All combined, you’ve got about seven hundred rolls of paper towels, twelve hundred rolls of toilet paper, and about fifteen hundred paper plates, bowls, cups, and anything else they can make out non-biodegradable paper. You know what I like to call it? Kindling. This whole store is a powder keg and this aisle could be my fuse.

It’d be all:

RANDOM ASSHOLE #1:
Holy shit! Fire! Fire!

RANDOM ASSHOLE #2:
The doors! They won’t open!

YOURS TRULY:
(maniacal laugh)
That’s because they’re sealed shut. And it all started with this goddamn aisle, you useless fucks.

A much better writer than myself once said that retail would be the best job in the world if it weren’t for the customers. I. Could. Not. Agree. More.

Like today’s shining example of customer…excuse me, they’re guests…”guest” meaning they are guests in our “home” and should be treated as such, although I’d rather commit seppuku than have any of these retards in my actual home…of guest retardation:

“Excuse me, do you work here?” asks a mother wearing one of those ridiculous front-side baby holders.

No way. Not me. I just wear this outrageous red shirt, khakis, and nametag to throw people off. How’d you figure me out? Are you a fucking master detective? “Yes, ma’am. Sure do. How can I help you?”

“Can you point me in the direction of the charcoal lighter fluid?”

I look up and see the huge sign that says ‘Outdoor Living’ and instantly wonder if this woman’s IQ is bigger than her shoe size. “Right this way, ma’am.”

Walking to the charcoal area, I start to daydream again. (Daydreaming is about 95% of what I do all day when I’m not masturbating or sleeping. Now, mix all three of those and that’s what I like to call Victory Lane.) How flammable is charcoal lighter really? I mean, could you… I don’t know…light a woman and her infant child on fire if you needed to? Or do you need to just skip to the beverages that include the word ‘proof’ somewhere on it?

“Here we are right here, ma’am.” I point at the charcoal lighter fluid.

“Which do you suggest?”

I tilt my head. “For what, you dumb bitch? It’s lighter fluid! You pour it on shit and light it on fire. You know what? Let me give you an example.” I grab a bottle and squirt all over…especially that ridiculous holder.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? PLEASE, I HAVE A BABY!”

“Yeah, I’m doing him a favor.” I pull out my Z-piece and ignite it.

End scene.

“I’d definitely go brand name on this one, ma’am. You can never have too high of quality for your charcoal needs.” I grab a bottle with a smiling white guy on it and hand it to her.

“Thank you so much for your help, mister…” She’s reading my nametag and trying to decide if it’s a joke or not. “young man.”

“Not a problem.”

Sometimes, I get called to the front of the store to do a little cashiering. Truly the one part of my job I enjoy. After all, these idiots are spending the money they make at jobs they don’t like on shit they don’t need so that they can die a little quicker. Thank you, Fight Club, for putting my thoughts on cashiering in context. By the way, great film.

Lunch time is a great indulgence for me. I’m slightly above-weight. Not fat enough that you notice. Not skinny enough that you care. I’m just…American.

Ricky Ray Rector, a personal hero of mine, was also a great thinker of meals. In ’81, Ricky took time out of his busy club-hopping schedule to shoot two people, one a cop. Like most misunderstood businessmen, he was sentenced to the death penalty. Sadly enough, Ricky also tried to pop a cap in himself. He, for the first time ever apparently, missed. Well…kinda. He gave himself a homemade lobotomy. Anyway, make a long story short…on the day of his death, the powers that be asked Ricky what he would like. Being reduced to the state of a child from his self-inflicted head wound, ol’ Ricky asked for some homemade fried chicken, some potatoes, a glass of cherry Kool-Aid, and a slice of pecan pie. He quickly consumed the chicken and the veggies, gulped the Kool-Aid, and then pushed the pie to the side. When asked by a guard why he didn’t eat the pie, Ricky looked at the guard and with the straightest look on his face said, and I quote: “I’m saving it for later.”

God, I love that story. I look down at my TV dinner and realize that this would not cut it for a last meal. I knife into my chicken-fried steak-flavored hunk of preservatives and laugh to myself. ‘Saving it for later.’ Classic.
At the end of the day, I’m actually not nearly as crazy as I want to be. I actually think I should amp it up a little bit. Maybe start of the Bundy way and just maim some cats or raccoons or whatever.

Or I could just do what I’m probably going to do: go on living life each day not acting like I want it to be my last. Or everyone else around me’s last.

Regrettably, there’s not much of a market for murderous psychopaths in today’s world. We are a misunderstood bunch and no one seems to understand that it’s our nature.

Walking out the door, I look at the front door and snap on a switch. One by one, a small bomb goes off in each corner of the store, engulfing the entire store in a heap of flame and misery. Screams of terror and pain are heard throughout. Small children run for their mothers as the bombs blow up all the paper, all the over-stuffed trailers, all the idiots who can’t choose their charcoal lighter fluid…

Maybe one day.

End scene.

__________________Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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A short story based on a sleep-deprived induced hallucination. by drew67

LANGUAGE WARNING

If there's any mistakes in this post, or I'm not following the rules exactly, apologies. I'm still getting to grips with it all.
This is a story I wrote a year or so ago about a hallucination I had when I was 48 hours sleep deprived. Any feedback is welcome.

-

Dead autumn leaves rustled along the pavement, carried by the mild wind. The trees cast shadows that were elongating in what seemed like minutes, and the sunlight was so dim that I didn’t feel the burn at the back of my eyes when I looked directly at it. The town was quiet and I was late. People closed their curtains for the night, their lights set to full brightness. In one particular house, a man stared at me before drawing his curtains, a sorrowful and grave look in his eye. I remember wishing that I were on the other side of the world at that moment. Night swiftly approached little England.

I had to start moving. I had to get home. No person would offer the charity of their home at this time. I got on my bike and started riding, carefully maneuvering myself to stay in the yellow light of the sun. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat and I decided to concentrate on my breathing, but the way it shook as I exhaled frightened me further. I had an hour before I got home, if I cycled fast. Why couldn’t it be summer? Why did I not leave earlier? Why could it not have been an hour earlier? My mind raced, thoughts flashing into my head and leaving to only make room for another. The sun dipped below the tree line; the day became grey.

To the right of me, trees stood tall, and at the bottom of the trees, it was pitch black. I must not look right, I told myself. I must not look right. I must not look right. I glanced right. Momentarily, everything around me turned black. I saw in the darkness shifting figures, and oh, how I desired to see what they were. They spiraled and swirled, in lines and shapes both straight and curved at the same time. The lines moved sleekly and jerkily. They interlinked with each other like locks of hair, and they fell apart and swirled away before locking with another line and swirling together. They were seductive. The long fingers stretched themselves out to me, pulling me in. Anything my conscious mind was saying was disregarded and dissolved into a haze of dreams. The figures soon surrounded the periphery of my vision, and the only thing left to look at was the dark hole in front of me. I looked into it. The immensity of the pull was staggering, the figures shifting rapidly, and I could not concentrate for they were passing me by like snow in a fast moving vehicle. No longer were they beckoning me. A high-pitched noise broke the air, and I could feel myself being pulled into this black hole, the figures that had once enticed me now fading at the borders. I did only what I knew, and covered my hands with my face.

The sky, the trees and the ground merged together in a collage of different yet dull colours. I felt my nose crack as my hip hit the curb. It was over instantaneously, and I stared at the sky whilst my vision shook heavily. Soon, everything straightened and a feeling of horrible warmness took over. I rolled over onto my hands and knees and threw up, a puddle of blood forming from my nose. I stood and threw up again, before settling my breathing and assessing my injuries. My nose was broken, but I could not be sure how bad it was. My hip was bruised but I could walk, and my hands were grazed and cut. My bike lay ahead of me, the back wheel spinning. ‘Babysteps,’ I thought to myself as I walked over. It had all happened so fast that I had forgotten about the impeding danger that was the night and the nightlings, and it was only when the moon caught my eye that everything clicked into place. ‘Shit,’ I said out loud. Blood bubbled at the bridge of my nose as I spoke and I instantly coughed it up. With only the fear of the nightlings to drive me, I climbed back onto my bike and began to ride again, as the moon rose further and further into the dark depths of the black sky.

__________________Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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Owen O'Connor was in the second grade at Jennings Elementary. He was a nice boy and a good student. He got straight "O's" on his report cards. ("Outstanding.") He played soccer on the recreational team and dreamed that maybe one day, when they actually assigned positions, that he might be the goalie. He got along well enough with the other kids, but there was something special about Owen that often made him feel alienated. Owen had a severe peanut allergy.

His mother, Ann, always made a big fuss of it, which embarrassed Owen. She was a chief member of the school's PTA and had never missed a meeting. Even when she had the flu she went--and coughed up her flu germs all over the facilities; the other mother's in attendance nervously Purelled their hands and managed to avoid it, but the germs went on to infect many young children at school the following day. Anyway, Owen's mother was a huge pain in the ass at the meetings and always managed to deter the conversation to herself and her son’s peanut allergy.

One thing that Owen's mother had rallied for was a peanut-free table in the school's cafeteria. That way her son would never have to worry about coming in contact with the toxic peanut oils. So a table was then designated, with a laminate sign taped to the middle that read, "Peanut-Free Table." It might as well have read, "Owen's Table," because he'd have to sit there alone. Sometimes their teacher Miss Daily would force other kids to sit with him and they obliged, begrudgingly.

Sometimes Owen wished he'd die of an allergy attack when he was made to suffer, alone on his island in the school cafeteria.

Owen's mother always volunteered when parents were asked to help out in the classroom. She was appointed to run the school's annual "Halloween Spooktacular." For weeks beforehand, Owen's mother freaked the fuck out, trying to prepare for the big event. For her, it had to be flawless. She spent many evenings on the phone coordinating details, or unpacking boxes full of plastic novelties (vampire fangs, spider rings, etc.) that had been shipped from China. Owen realized his mother was more excited about the Spooktacular than he was.

And so finally the big day arrived, Owen and his mother went to school; she dressed as a witch with her face painted green, and he as a little cowboy. Owen had initially wanted to be "Scream"--the mask with the blood-pumping mechanism, but his mother had told him, "Certainly not, it's practically Satanic and you'll scare the other children."

The event was going swell; apple-bobbing, fortune-telling, bean-bag tosses and monster mash. The whole thing was running like clockwork UNTIL Mrs. Saxx, his classmate Sam's mother, entered with a plate of cookies. Innocently enough, she placed the tray of cookies amongst the spread of baked goods and unwrapped them. Owen's mother came over to say hello (inspect)...then suddenly the witch shrieked in horror. "Are those PEANUT BUTTER chips?!" They were. "Are you KIDDING me Charlotte? You've just compromised all of the baked goods by introducing your poison cookies to the table!"

A fight broke out. The two women kept screaming and hollering at one another, then Owen's mom flipped the tray of cookies and they were all over the floor. Mr. Cox, the principle, came in and asked Mrs. O'Connor to leave.

Owen's mother grappled with a large wine and cheese gift basket as she made her way out the door. It was a PTA peace offering. "Do your homework, and no TV. I'll be back at 8. " She climbed into the Chevy Suburban and drove off. Owen put on his sneakers, grabbed his piggy-bank full of change and walked to the corner store.

The clerk smiled during the whole transaction, which took about five minutes as the young boy sorted through his change.

Owen got home, went to the bathroom and took off all his clothes. He climbed into the bathtub, cold and naked. He proceeded to smear peanut butter all over his sad, little body. He cried.

His skin went bright red under the brown smears of peanut butter. His eyes went red too, all full up of tears. He screamed and sobbed and made awful choking noises.

His windpipe closed at 7:57.

Mrs. O'Connor got home at 8:04.

The coroner arrived at 8:18.

__________________Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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